Faux Pas
by hiding duh
Summary: Bet you never knew how involved Vossler was with designing Ashe's default outfit.


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**Author's Note**: Totally silly! I apologize in advance.

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Someone was going to pay.

While Dalmasca was predominantly tropical, and Bhujerba adequately warm, Paramina Rift was decidedly _neither_. He assumed the repeated use of words such as _glacier_, _frozen_, and _ice_ would have been a deterrent to any sort of inadequate fashion alternatives.

So why was she practically _disrobing_ in the middle of a blizzard?

"Majesty," he grumbled, shouldering past a long line of insurgents.

She peered at him behind one of the men.

Vossler instantly recoiled.

"Majesty! Have you been _assailed_?" he demanded, quickly reaching for the hilt of his sword.

She gave him a displeased glance, then dusted an invisible speck of dust off her new armlet.

"I have not," she informed him.

The tip of his blade thumped against the thick snow.

A moment of silence ensued.

The men cleared their throats, slowly retreating into the relative safety of the surrounding blizzard and the various behemoths lurking in the distance.

"I merely considered the disadvantages of my royal robes," she explained indignantly, though he could've sworn her cheeks were unusually pink, "and replaced them accordingly."

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

"With all due respect, Majesty," he ground out impatiently, "I cannot abide by decisions that put you—and consequently, Dalmasca herself—at risk. Perhaps you should—"

She adjusted the clasp resting against her breastbone and slid a small dagger down one of her boots. "I like it."

He intended to look away, but couldn't quite convince his eyes to cooperate.

"It is not a matter of..." he began, then trailed off as she pinned the center of her bodice higher, revealing her—

"...clear disadvantage," he tried again, sheathing his sword and turning around to stare at a block of ice.

Unfortunately, blocks of ice were quite reflective.

"...we must not fail to remember the... reality of our... plight..." he concluded halfheartedly.

"Do you not have trust in me, Vossler?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He weighed his words carefully, then exhaled and motioned for her to lead the way.

It wasn't until several days later, when the rebellion was clearing brush beyond the Mosphoran Highwaste, that he noticed her beckoning him closer.

Even after an entire year of devoted service, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca—the last guarantee that the future of his beloved kingdom would not be stolen—had a peculiar way of unsettling him. Especially when she insisted on bargaining with shifty-eyed merchants peddling wares too indecent for even the most common of humes.

"I like it," she said before he had a chance to comment.

But it was _red_. Red and short. Red and short and she wouldn't possibly be able to run in it. Or bend over. Or breathe.

"Majesty," he warned, attempting—as inconspicuously as possible—to cover her with one of the vendor tarps.

Not that her newfound... freedom of expression wasn't advantageous.

After all, he was sure she'd managed to aggravate an ice elemental while passing through the Rift. And while Vossler was relatively certain elementals had no distinguishable eyes, he _knew_ the thing had taken one look at the princess' shivering physique, sighed deeply, then leisurely bounced off.

And... and the insurgency seemed to be thriving. Granted, a large majority of its members were male and had joined _after_ catching a glimpse of Her Majesty's... assets. Which made the pride of amassing a large regiment severely offset by the increased effort he needed to expend to secure her safety.

"Do _you_ like it?" she asked suddenly, not at all bothering to look at him.

"I do not have any particular opinion," he mumbled.

The next morning, the edge of her skirt had risen to an alarming altitude.

So he waited until they were trekking through the Estersand, strategically isolating her from most of her followers.

"Majesty," he began amiably, quickly tying a cloak around her bare shoulders. "I fear a sandstorm awaits us ahead."

She gave him a suspicious scowl, but seemed oddly satisfied.

He was surprisingly proud to find her wearing the cloak several weeks later.

Even more fortuitously, returning to Rabanastre also seemed to indicate the princess' return to normalcy.

He caught her negotiating with a lost Moogle in the darkest corners of Lowtown, studiously contemplating respectable apparel and accessories that _didn't_ visibly expose her most vulnerable parts.

Apparently, she could feel him watching her and glanced his way.

He hastily attempted to blend into the shadows, but a stack of broken barrels barred his way.

Impatient, and peculiarly exasperated, she motioned him over.

"Do you have an opinion?" she asked, her voice carefully guarded.

He tilted his head slightly. "I am convinced the future queen of Dalmasca may indeed shine in—"

She immediately shoved the fabric back at the Moogle, who seemed rather offended.

"_Kupo_," he snapped at Vossler.

"Exactly," she muttered under her breath, then summarily chose the least tasteful article available.

On the upside, the men quickly learned to keep their distance.

From both the princess and Vossler.

During extended periods of time when he could not physically hover above her, he would receive correspondence confirming the number of times any one man had looked at her. Upon returning, he would swiftly stalk the shadowed corridors of Lowtown, his eyes glinting in the darkness, thus prompting several residents to put up bills to hunt down the mysterious beast prowling their secret city.

And if the number of men joining the resistance had fallen in recent months, well, it was obviously a mere coincidence.

It was actually when the size of her bangles began to directly correspond to the length of his hair, that he came to her.

"Though I am able to ward off both friend and foe in favor of the mission," he told her confidently, "I know when a fight has become futile."

She seemed to genuinely perk up at that. "Vossler..."

"Here," he said, handing her a loosely wrapped bundle, displaying an enormous amount of fealty.

She accepted calmly, though her lashes seemed oddly lowered. "I thank y—_what __is __this_ _abomination_, Vossler!"

"It seems to be a man's armor," one of the attendants piped in innocently, then went back to securing the Waterway.

Feeling accomplished, Vossler made a wide arc with his right hand. "I understand now, Your Majesty."

"You do," she deadpanned, inspecting the heavy burgonet in her lap.

"Not unlike Dalmasca, you are unable to tolerate weakness. The cold, the heat—are of no consequence," he explained solemnly, feeling great pride well up in his heart. "I offer you these so that you may properly fight beside your men."

Why was she looking at him like that?

"Vossler?"

"Majesty?"

She glanced at the frayed Rabanastre charts splayed before her, then at him, then back at the charts.

"Thank you," she nodded.

He left her presence having attained a higher understanding of his country and his charge.

It wasn't until Archadian soldiers foiled the rebellion's assassination attempt—separating him from the princess in the process—that he began worrying.

After all, men who were not as dedicated to their motherland as he was... such men might misconstrue Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca's appearance as a... a cry for attention.

Frustrated, he searched for her ceaselessly, breathing a sigh of relief once Basch fon Ronsenberg and miscellaneous rabble retrieved her.

"A full two years," he confided to Basch. "I alone have kept Her Majesty safely hidden."

Basch's eyes briefly settled on the Princess' fuming outline.

"_Hidden_?" he seemed to ask of no one in particular, then gloomily segued into, "You did your duty. And mine for me."

It was odd—to say the least—to charge Basch with protecting the princess.

Odder still was reuniting with the pirates weeks later.

"Hey, whatcha staring at?" Vaan asked, buzzing about his face.

Horrified, Vossler watched the scene unfold through narrowed eyes.

Her skirt—red, unbendable, unbreathable—was _shorter_.

Perhaps the moisture percolating through the Phon Coast had shrunk it. Perhaps there had been an unfortunate accident with one of the monsters residing in the Zertinan Caverns. Perhaps she simply forgot the rest of her outfit.

Because there was no other explanation as to why the future queen of Dalmasca would wear nothing but a _belt_.

"It's not nice to stare at _those_ body parts," Vaan told him apprehensively, scratching the back of his head. "Isn't that right, _Fran_?"

Fran ignored him.

It wasn't until he noticed the casual way Ashe strolled past Basch—and the casual way Basch watched her do so—that Vossler's eyebrows shot up in sudden realization.

"Vossler?" Basch questioned gruffly.

Full of purpose, Vossler advanced.

Finally.

Someone was going to pay.


End file.
